Kisasi by Sonnia Gitome

“I don’t know why my father chose the path that he chose. I am his daughter but nothing like him. I have carved my own path. I value human life; I respect the law and I’m here because I believe I can safeguard the constitution and the citizens of this country.” As she said the last words, she saw several officers exchange looks. The answer seemed to satisfy them because she got the job.

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 A single gunshot rang through the foggy day in the middle of July. She ran through the training tracks undisturbed by the light rain and mud covering her entire face, almost blinding her. Her lithe body moved through the obstacles with ease. She could hear her trainer’s voice urging her on. She crawled under the barbed wire amidst cheers from her teammates. A nail pierced her back and tore her mud-covered vest but she kept on crawling, each second pushing her closer to her goal. As she got to the end, a barb dug dip into her calf and tore her skin. She screamed in pain. She could hear heavy footsteps running towards her as she let the pain transport her to another time. A time she would give anything to forget. A day that took away everything that she held dear.

Nafula was only eight years old when she first saw a gun, and it was pointed at her.

The birds were chirping, perched high on the two jacaranda trees that graced their front lawn, its flowers in full bloom on the warm, sunny October morning. Nafula’s mom had made breakfast for the family. Her father had arrived from a long trip in the middle of the night bearing gifts for all of them. She got a purple hard hat with black fasteners and a T-square with her initials engraved on it. “One day you will design a huge building in the middle of our town,” her father told her proudly, as he tightened the fasteners under her chin.

 “Yes. After I design the best house for mom. I love my T-square and safety hat Baba. Thank you!” she had replied, squealing in delight. She wanted to be an architect when she grew up. The family sat down to breakfast. A loud knock on the door followed by glass breaking in the kitchen caused them all to panic. “Take the children to our room,” Baba ordered Mama. Mama grabbed her and Idris and ran out of the dining room. She hid them under the bed and ordered them not to come out. She heard her mother muttering a prayer as she knelt on the floor. Suddenly smoke started to fill the room. They coughed and choked. Mama pulled them out and ran outside. Her vision blurry from the smoke and coughing hard, Nafula saw her father kneeling in the middle of their front yard, his fingers interlocked behind his head. Soldiers were perched high on their fence, some on the ground pointing huge guns at her father. Idris, her brother, ran to Baba and embraced him. Nafula ran after him but bumped into a soldier who pointed his gun at her. She stared into the barrel, confused and afraid. Her father seemed like he was miles away. “Baba!” she yelled. He turned his head and smiled weakly at her. Idris held their father tightly. It felt like a horror movie as she watched the guns pointed at her mother, father and her big brother. Her innocent eyes filled with fear she stared into the eyes of the fully camouflaged soldier. Her mother yanked her away and hid her behind the short corridor wall. She remembered how her warm bosom calmed her through the chaos. “Get back on the ground!” she heard a voice shout. She made to peer over the corridor wall but her mother pulled her down. Suddenly, gunshots rent the air. Her mother held her tightly to her bosom. She clung to her mother’s neck, tucking herself closer to her mom in fear. She listened for what seemed like eternity until all was silent. Then she heard voices and footsteps walking towards her. “Mama wanakuja,”she whispered, but her mother stayed motionless, her arms protectively wrapped around her. Nafula whispered her warning again, but all she felt was her mother’s arms slide off her back and rest on the floor. As she untangled herself from the embrace, her mother’s silver chain fell between them. She held on to it as she stared at her mother’s bloody hands. “Mama!” she called to her as tears welled in her eyes. “We have a live one. Should I exterminate?” she heard a soldier shout as he towered over her. “No, soldier! Those are not your orders!” she heard another man shout. Blood flowed slowly from her mother’s neck. She screamed in fear as the soldier dragged her across the corridor that was once her play haven. “We will take her with us.”

“Special Agent Nafula.”

She opened her eyes and saw him, his face inches away from hers. She could smell his musky cologne. She smiled as she sat up. He tried to help her but thought better of it and let her be.

“Hey babe,” he whispered. She smiled and swung her feet off the bed. She closed her eyes as pain shot through her at that movement. He held her hand while admonishing her for pushing herself too hard on the training tracks and even now on the hospital bed.

“I thought you said that’s why you love me…,” she teased. He stepped back, but she could tell that he was worried. Baraka had loved her since the first time she walked into the Special Crimes Unit. Her long strides and piercing eyes had enslaved his heart to hers. It had taken a further eight months before she agreed to be his girlfriend.

“Fifteen stitches. You will have a nasty scar this time,” he told her as they both walked slowly towards the door. “We all have scars, visible and invisible,” Nafula replied. He held the door open for her, but before walking through it, she stopped and smiled at him. Her eyes full of love and gratitude, she mouthed “I love you too.”

The briefing room was huge, furnished with computers and several screens mounted on the walls. Nafula walked in just as the team was dispersing. Her commander motioned for her to follow him to his office. Kip, the head of the SCU, had always liked her. He was the one who recruited her into the unit from forensics two years ago, on her twenty sixth birthday. The first time she walked into his office, she was slightly awed. The president’s picture hung majestically on one side of the wall next to the Inspector General’s. She could feel the power the office held even as she sat down. She remembered the interview when she joined the police force.

“Your father was Ayub Hamisi Wanjala?” he asked as he perused her file. She nodded affirmatively. He put her file down and fixed his gaze on her, making her feel small and even more nervous. She swallowed hard as she maintained eye contact. It had been a while since someone had said her father’s name out loud. “You know that your father was an enemy of the state?” her commanding officer had asked her during the vetting interview with four other officials.

“Yes,” she had answered simply. “He was a terrorist.”

“Do you know which jihadist group he was associated with?” She could feel the ten pairs of eyes piercing into her, daring her to say the wrong thing so they could throw her out. She was after all, the jihadist’s daughter.

“I don’t know why my father chose the path that he chose. I am his daughter but nothing like him. I have carved my own path. I value human life; I respect the law and I’m here because I believe I can uphold the constitution and safeguard the citizens of this country.” As she said the last words, she saw several officers exchange looks. The answer seemed to satisfy them because she got the job.

She heard Kip’s voice as though from a distance, his fingers snapping impatiently as he called her name. She blinked hard as she came to. “So why?” he repeated calmly.

“Why what, sir?” she asked confused.

 “Why did you choose to be a police officer?”

“I never chose this, it chose me. It was a calling. I want to protect lives, defend my country against any forces that may want to cause harm.”

“Don’t preach to me, Nafula. Tell me the real reason you joined the force!” Her gaze moved to the president’s portrait.

“When my family was killed, I felt alone, helpless and afraid. My grandmother protected me when everyone else turned their backs on me. I chose to be a police officer to protect those who feel helpless and to serve everyone regardless of their situation.”

Kip leaned back in his chair and picked her file again. “Then stop going on the training tracks as if you are chasing your demons. You are in the Special Crimes Unit because you are good at your job. I’m giving you three days off for your wounds to heal.”

“No!” she stood up hurriedly, almost knocking his pen holder off the table.

Kip stared at her shocked by the outburst. She sat back down and composed herself.

“I’m sorry sir. I’m okay. I don’t need time off.”

Kip closed her file and put it back in his drawer. He walked over to the window and stared out.

“You need it. It starts today. You are dismissed.”

 “This is the campaign period. You need everyone on standby,” she protested.

“Nafula, you should not have to always feel like you have to handle everything. There are other people. Go. Say hello to your kukhu for me.”

She had known him long enough to understand when he no longer wanted to discuss an issue. She got up, saluted and walked out.

Growing up in Busia County, in the western region of Kenya, Nafula loved harvesting finger millet with her grandmother. She had only a few memories of her mother but she remembered the songs she sang while tilling the land because she sang them with her grandmother. As she travelled back home in an overloaded Nissan van, the hills and trees brought back all the memories. She closed her eyes and remembered the first time her grandmother brought her here after twenty-four hours of interrogation by the police. She felt cold and alone despite her grandmother’s warm shawl on her shoulders.

The first time she walked into her grandmother’s compound, her aunties had taken their children and run off, while her uncles demanded Kukhu throw her back on the streets.

“She is the daughter of a terrorist! She will bring bad luck to our house,” one of her uncles declared.

“She is my blood. Our blood! You are all free to leave if you want,” Kukhu had replied him with finality. A woman wailed in pain, calling on the ancestors to take Nafula’s life and rid the family of the omen. Kukhu had grabbed Nafula’s hand, held it tight and marched her into the house. Days later the whole compound was deserted. Only she and Kukhu remained.

She had no idea how long she had been asleep before she was woken up by the sound of chickens clucking fiercely. She looked out of the window and saw the town centre had not changed much. It still didn’t house any exceptional buildings and the roads were still dusty. Old men sat outside shops playing checkers as they listened to rhumba music on their small radios.

She disembarked, put on her sunglasses and hoisted her backpack onto her shoulder. She cranked up the volume on her earphones as she made her way through the town. Several men turned away when they saw her. Older women openly sneered and some spat as she passed by. Young men and women sat outside khat shops listening to reggae music as they chewed khat.

“The jihadist’s daughter is back!” a young girl called out. Nafula walked past them blind and deaf to all their words and actions.

Her kukhu’s compound was as she’d left it over a year ago. The two-bedroom stone house stood at the far end of the compound surrounded by flowers they had both planted when she was younger. She could still hear her Kukhu’s hearty laughter every time she sat down to watch her running after a chicken for the evening meal. “Abana wami! My child is home!” her kukhu shouted as she stood by the door, looking lovingly at her granddaughter, tears threatening to burst. Supported by her walking stick, she walked towards her. Nafula ran to her and embraced her. They both wept silently as they held on to each other.

“Kukhu, I have missed you,” she whispered against her ear.

“Welcome back home, my child,” granny whispered as she took a step back to look at her. “You have grown thinner. You need chicken soup, ugali and a lot of vegetables,” she said as she guided Nafula to the kitchen. Nafula laughed because she knew that her granny would spoil her no matter how much she protested.

The night seemed to have flown by as she woke up next to her granny the next morning. The house had a woody smell. For as long as she could remember, it always had that smell. She quietly got out of bed, wore her old jacket and walked out.

Her family’s graves were well tended to. Different flowers surrounded each grave. Nafula sat between her parents’ graves, rubbing her mother’s chain around her neck.

“I miss you all, mama,” she whispered as she caressed her tombstone.

“Avenge their deaths and you will have all the peace you need.”

She turned around, startled.

Abdul Jallow stood a few feet from her. Dressed in a dark kanzu, his tasbih hanging on his neck, silver beard glistening against the light, he smiled, holding his arms open for her. She ran to him and basked in his embrace.

“You are finally home. How is everything coming along?” he asked.

“All is well,” she whispered as she stepped back.

Abdul Jallow walked over to her father’s grave and plucked a few weeds.

“Don’t forget your purpose in life,” he said, staring at her mother’s tombstone. Nafula followed his gaze. “You buried the pain but it’s still there. Will your family’s blood have been spilled in vain?”

She said nothing. How could she disobey the man that took her in when she was thirteen years old? Taught her how to fight in Kakamega forest, helped her overcome her fears and bury her pain? He had made sure she stayed in school and secretly provided her with everything she needed. She remembered the last day of her training. It had rained so hard that the ground was wet and slippery. As they stood in a straight line dressed in camouflages, taking their last oaths deep in the coastal tropical Boni forest.

“I will uphold my religion and my God as I carry out His will. We are the al saalihin. Allahu akbar!” they had all shouted.

“Remember that your family’s blood was spilled for no just cause. Your father was not a jihadist. His only sin was being a Muslim,” he said as he walked to her.

“How is the planning?” he asked, handing her an envelope.

“Everything is in place. I finally met him,” she said, her eyes fixed on her brother’s grave. Abdul Jallow moved closer to her and put his arms around her like a father would.

“He was promoted to Inspector General last week, he who killed my family,” she said, still staring at the graves.

Grandma appeared behind them but Abdul Jallow left before she reached them. He nodded at Nafula and then disappeared into the woods.

Grandma had a scowl on her face as she watched him disappear. She had never liked him. She never understood why he was always with his granddaughter speaking in hushed tones, she was sure he was not a good man. Over the years she tried to find out who he was and the family he came from, but no one seemed to know anything about him. She looked at Nafula and motioned for her to follow her.

On the table in the sitting room was a small old box locked with an old padlock. Kukhu sat opposite Nafula and then she slid the box across to her. Kukhu told Nafula that the box belonged to her late father and she could open it whenever she was ready. Kukhu also said that she had included some of Nafula’s personal effects in the box. Nafula stared at it without saying a word. Kukhu told her stories about her father’s younger days and how he loved travelling. She begged her to let go of her pain, to bury her past once and for all and focus on her life. It was what her parents would want for her. Nafula sat there lost in thought as she listened to Kukhu.

“Sometimes the truth is right in front of our eyes but we choose to be blind to it because we are too afraid,” Kukhu said quietly.

When Nafula got to the office the following week, Kip had scheduled a briefing for the team. A new threat had been reported by the director of criminal cases in the Intelligence Unit. Chatter had been picked up of a possible terror attack on the International Trade Fair due to start at the Kenya International Convention Centre, in the heart of the city’s central business district.

A picture of a young Abdul Jallow, shirtless, holding a rifle and a magazine round hanging across his chest, was on all the screens. Kip briefed the team. For seventeen years he had been in hiding after faking his death and was now believed to be the leader of the Al saalihin jihadist group. A group that believed that they were righteous soldiers ordained for the purpose of carrying out God’s mandate.

 “The group has sleeper cells and they are now activated. We need to find out their exact plans and stop them,” Kip said with finality.

Pictures of past bombings filled the screens. Women and children lay on the streets, their body parts scattered on the ground. Kip’s voice faded as Nafula looked at the images. A picture of a group of young jihadists popped up on the screens and her heart stopped. Kip’s voice came back as if he was shouting with a microphone, her heart pounded as she stared at the photo. A picture of her father dressed in military fatigues with magazine rounds across his shoulders, smiling as he held an AK-47 rifle, looked back at her.

“These are the founders. Most of them have been eliminated, some are in prison and the rest are in hiding. The organisation is spreading its propaganda through its Telegram channel and social media pages where they source for funding and new recruits,” Kip continued.

Nafula listened intently as Kip explained how the information about the KICC planned attack was picked from coded messages on social media by local and international security forces. The rest of the meeting was a blur and when it was over, she made her way home.

Sitting on the floor, still dressed in her work clothes, she broke open the box Kukhu gave her and poured its contents on the floor. Her T-square fell next to her feet. She rummaged through the pictures and documents and finally saw what she was looking for. She picked it up slowly and stared in disbelief. It was an exact copy of the picture Kip displayed during the briefing.

She opened the files and found details of the August 1998 bombing in Nairobi. Her heart sank as she realised that her father had planted the bombs. He was indeed a terrorist.

She found several different passports belonging to him, all in different names. She felt the world closing in on her as she held the documents to her chest, breathing heavily, and blinded by tears. She didn’t hear Baraka letting himself in until he called out to her. She quickly returned the documents to the box and pushed it under the bed just as he walked into the room. She forced a smile but he could tell something was wrong. He sat next to her and held her tight without saying a word. She let herself go and sobbed at being driven by her need for revenge and blind to the truth for so many years.

Sitting opposite Abdul Jallow and Omar at the presidential suite of the luxurious Hotel Mercury, Nafula showed no signs of distress. She was at ease as she listened to them lay out the plan for the attack. Abdul looked at her proudly and said, “It is time, my child. Time to fulfil Allah’s purpose for you.”

She smiled at him and said nothing.

Back at the SCU, she walked into Kip’s office and requested for her father’s official file. He was surprised by her request given that it had been offered to her since she joined the police force but she had always declined.

“Why?”

“I want closure,” she responded quietly.

He obliged and gave it to her, then excused himself from the office to give her some privacy. A mug shot of her father was the first thing she saw: she had so many questions for him at that moment. The file contained details of his movements, bank accounts and transactions including a picture of he and Abdul Jallow in a hostel room. She looked through the file for what seemed like an eternity until Kip walked back in. She got off his seat and stood by the near-dead ferns on his table. He gave her a concerned look.

“You never knew he killed so many people, did you?” he inquired. In answer, she asked him if she could have her mother and brother’s files. He opened his drawer and handed her two thin files and told her there was nothing on them: they were just casualties of her father’s madness. She asked why they were killed and he told her her mother was hit by a stray bullet while her brother was shot as a result of being beside their father when he opened fire on the police. Pain and relief surged simultaneously through her.

That night was one of the most difficult nights Nafula had ever had. She kept tossing and turning. All of Baraka’s efforts to calm her were in vain. She wanted desperately to open up to him, to warn him that the bombing was to take place at the stadium during the campaign rally, but she couldn’t do it without risking her career and her life. Besides, a voice inside her kept telling her Abdul Jallow had to have a good reason for keeping the truth from her. She knew he loved her like his own child. That was the first night she wondered how he had found her and recruited her into Al saalihin.

Back at the hotel suite, she confronted Abdul with all that she had found out and he had calmly told her he kept the truth from her to protect her and not to further complicate her already complicated life. He reiterated his fatherly love for her since her birth. He explained that he and her father had been directed by the Prophet Muhammad himself to start the group immediately they completed university in Egypt, to fight injustices suffered by their Muslim brothers and sisters. She was unconvinced and told him so. Abdul reiterated that it was her destiny and the group would not allow her to betray them. She walked out of the hotel room angry and confused.

The following day she received news of Kukhu’s death. She was devastated and broken as she attended her funeral a few days later. Kip tried to give her time off but she declined. The terror attack investigation was in full swing.

Several weeks after Kukhu’s funeral, she got her post-mortem report from the government pathologist’s office. It showed Kukhu had died of gas poisoning. She knew right away it was the work of Abdul Jallow and his group as this was not the first time they had used the gas to eliminate people. In fact, it was their calling card. She went home and called Abdul on her secret phone.

When they met, she showed him the post-mortem result. At first, he tried to blame it on the government until she mentioned how he had used it to kill a former politician in Zambia. Her anger rose and she accused him of manipulating her over the years and all other young people he had recruited to do his dirty work while he hid in the shadows. Abdul Jallow did not lose his composure as he grabbed her by the neck and reminded her that she ought to be grateful to him for taking her in and turning her into the person she had become. He accused her of being as weak as her mother who had refused to aid them in their cause. He left her house and told her to keep the police away from the stadium. He decided that Omar would plant the bombs instead as she was not worthy of such a noble role, warning her that betraying them would cause her a big loss. He placed a picture of Baraka on the table and walked out. Nafula sank to the floor.

On the day of the rally, she woke Baraka up and thanked him for loving her. She said she appreciated all that he had done for her and wished that they had met in a different time, in a different world. He was confused and asked what she meant but she distracted him with a deep kiss before sliding off the bed and heading to the shower.

KICC was a burst of colour and activity as vendors set up shop and people strolled into the convention centre inspecting the merchandise and making purchases. Security personnel were deployed at all the entrances, some posing as visitors while they surveyed the premises. Back at the SCU, Baraka was trying to find Nafula at Kip’s order, but she was nowhere to be found. His calls to her cell phone went unanswered. He logged her phone serial number on the government’s data base and found it was located at the stadium.

Just then the office was thrown into chaos as all their computers started beeping. Photos of Abdul Jallow dressed in apparel branded with the name of a popular political group, appeared on all the screens. The surveillance team was confounded and began working frantically to retrieve their hacked systems.

Kip and Colonel Makau walked in just then. “Send the military and all available units to the stadium now! Call the bomb experts too!” Kip ordered.

Baraka rushed in and informed them that Nafula was already at the stadium. They all wondered why she had deserted her duty post at the KICC. Kip ordered that Nafula be called and briefed as soon as possible.

Nafula pressed herself against the wall and moved forward, her head bent low as she searched for Omar. She knew he would not be alone but she did not expect to see Abdul Jallow there. She saw them walking from the bathroom dressed in branded caps and shirts of political groups, carrying backpacks and blending with the crowd.

She followed them stealthily as they made their way into the control room. Abdul was the first to see her. He nodded at Omar who continued walking as he remained behind. Nafula walked towards him determined to stop him. She took out her service charge pistol and pointed it at him. Abdul smiled at her and said, “It’s already too late.”

She shot him and saw him fall as she ran past his body to reach Omar. She caught up with him at the bottom a long stairwell leading to the main bowl of the KICC. He had discarded his shirt and now had his suicide vest in full view, his back to her.

“Stop, Omar! I can’t let you do this!”

He turned and gave her a murderous look. “You weakling! You are a traitor! You are no longer righteous!”

“Nafula!” Baraka appeared behind her on the stairwell.

“No, Baraka! Leave! Evacuate the stands now!”

Suddenly, a ghostly Abdul appeared behind Baraka at the entrance and stabbed him in the neck. Nafula screamed, as she ran towards them, forgetting Omar.

She cradled Baraka’s head and cried softly and he breathed his last. When he did, she put his head gently on the ground and went after Omar.

From the main bowl above them, she could hear people going about without a clue what was happening. She found Omar just inside the gate from which players emerged.

He looked at her defiantly.

He made a dash for it but Nafula was ready, her rifle discarded as she leapt into the air, crashing into Omar’s legs just as he detonated the suicide vest. He never made it out of the gate.

A week later, Kip went through her box in his office. He found her letter that explained everything that happened to her since she met Abdul Jallow at the age of 13. She had written down the names of every operative and their training grounds. Regretting how her pain blinded her to the truth, she apologised to Kip.

He returned everything to the box, his heart heavy with loss. Zara Nafula Wanjala was the daughter he never had.

THE END